


Oscar's

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Comforts of Home, Crack, Gen, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, she could have! She won’t tell me everything she did and we're just taking her at her word that it'll help us! Do you not understand how incredibly screwed we are if this doesn't work, Colonel?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oscar's

The 'jumpers might be good for deep space, but when it came to land-side weather conditions, they were as lousy as any other vehicle he'd ever been in, allowing the pattering sound of heavy drops on the roof to fill both compartments. It wasn't even a _hiss_ , like the barracks that’d been his home for years. No, each individual drop striking the 'jumper was accentuated, making his head feel like he was in the middle of a steel drum set.

John stared mournfully out the windshield -- the scientists had another term for it, but it was a shield that protected you from the wind, as well as deep space, so _windshield_ \-- watching droplets bead into small rivers, cascading down the slope to form puddles between the not-glass and the curving gray metal of the 'jumper itself.

"Well, what did you expect?" Rodney snapped, already tightening his hooded jacket. The black material was slick and shiny, hanging off of him like it was far, far too big. In other circumstances, the image of Rodney looking like a child dressed up in an adults' clothing would've been hysterical.

Currently, it just looked _warm._ And _dry._

Teyla and Ronon, too, were dressed in the Athosian equivalents of London Fog and North Face, fussing with cuffs and collars just in case. "Did you not receive the MALP telemetry reports, as we did?" Teyla asked mildly.

Mildly, for Teyla, meant she was mocking him. John hated that he'd finally figured that out, because he'd thought Teyla was the only one who _didn't_ spend most of her waking hours finding ways to torment her team leader. 

The way Rodney and Ronon had refined to a damned high art.

"Oh, he did," Rodney answered for him, grin audible despite being muffled by reflective black material. "He just stopped when he saw the word 'beach'."

Which was true, of course. He hadn't checked the footage he'd been emailed, just glanced through the initial report Chuck had sent around, immediately zeroing in on the possibility of beaches. The promised breakers on Atlantis' mainland had never materialized, since the reefs in the area were too large and too close to be safe, and there was never any time to just go sit and bask in the sun, anyway. He'd thought that here, maybe, just possibly, a little slack might be found.

He looked out again, mournfully surveying the scene before him. Beaches, sure, but _pebble_ beaches, the kind that made walking barefoot impossible, with a sharply angled downward slope that meant a serious riptide. The harsh, banging crash of waving pounding the shore promised broken bones and dented skulls, loud even through the 'jumper's walls. This was not the wide open, balmy beauty of Sydney, or the sugary beaches inside the Gulf of Mexico.

Hell, this wasn't even the annoying but passable eastern coast, with its constantly cool water and grainy, clingy sands.

This was the _United Kingdom_ of beaches.

Dammit.

"Colonel." Teyla's hand was warm and gentle, despite the ever-present hint of mockery in her voice. "If we are to leave, we must go now. Our time here must be short."

"Yes, yes," Rodney chimed in, looking at a watch he never wore and wouldn't be able to see anyway with three layers between air and his wrist. "Deadline, Colonel, you do remember that? Even if the beaches had been worth visiting we don't have time to indulge your whims."

That was blatantly unfair, but John was pulling his Athosian-made jacket over his head so all he could do was let out a muffled, "Hey!"

Fortunately, Ronon didn't spend all of his time _just_ mocking John. "What's that Earth phrase -- pot and kettle? You do your own haring off, McKay," he told Rodney.

"Yes, of _course_ I do when there's a _reading_ that might lead to, oh, I don't know, a _ZPM_ , maybe? Weapons? Things like we found two planets ago where I thought you were going to _lick_ the damned casing when I said it was designed to create explosions?"

Ronon looked fond for an instant. "Yeah. That was good stuff."

"Believe it or not," Rodney continued, barely listening to anyone else, "I don't just disappear for the hell of it. I have a purpose here on this team and I will fulfill that purpose regardless of what you, or anyone else, thinks about my motives. The fact that I am the only one able to do these things just means that tiny, cave-brains like yourself cannot comprehend just what it is that I do, which is so much of an anti-surprise that I don’t know why I even bother.” One glance showed him just how effective his rant had been, and Rodney threw up his hands. “Oh, whatever. We have a time limit, so stop wasting it!"

Popping the door open without a backward glance, Rodney marched off into the driving rain and down the winding path.

Wiping his already wet face, John exchanged a glance with Teyla and Ronon. "Perhaps we should allow him to do this on his own," Teyla suggested. Delicately, she examined a drop of water sliding down her hand. "Colonel, you mentioned gloves?"

"The only ones we have rated for this kind of weather aren't flexible enough to -- "

"Are you _coming?"_ Rodney shouted, distant and faint from his position of twenty feet away. The rain started to come down even harder, creating small rivers that eddied and shifted around his boots. "We don't have all day. It's just a little water, Colonel Don't Touch My Hair. And you have a hood!"

"Will not a hood also flatten Colonel Sheppard's hair?" Teyla stepped off the 'jumper gracefully, despite the uncertain footing as sand and mud became even less stable. She glanced over her shoulder, mouth tilted up in her version of a smirk. "Although I do admit to wanting to see what he would look like without one, in this rain. I believe the phrase is 'drowned rat'. Dr. McKay, what is a rat?"

John tied his hood tightly and hurried down the path before he listened to anymore. He knew they wouldn't stop, and trying to convince them would only give them more material. The best way to deal with it was avoiding entirely. He was _good_ at avoiding things.

So good, in fact, that he almost tripped over Almathea. "Colonel Sheppard!" she squealed, leaping up to hug his waist, tightly enough that he worried about breathing. "I was watching and watching, because mama said you were coming and you came!" she said, twisting herself into his jacket.

That was bad. Really, really bad, because that made his jacket ride up, which meant water slipped _down_ , trickling past the waist of his pants and _down his ass_. 

After another half second and John revised trickling to _soaking_ his now _freezing cold_ ass.

"Hey, Alma," he said, forcing himself to laugh and smile as he pushed her away, surreptitiously tugging his jacket to cover his pants again, which didn't help since he was already soaked and frozen. Why the hell hadn't she thrown herself at Rodney, like usual?

He glared at Rodney, who looked back smugly. Beyond him, Teyla and Ronon maintained their stoic expressions -- which translated into laughing their asses off at him. He'd _liked_ it when he wasn't so good at reading the both of them, dammit. "Is your mother around?" he asked, teeth starting to chatter. "Sorry we can't stay and chat, but we're kind of in a hurry."

"She is, we’ve been waiting and waiting!" Alma chirped, skipping away like the driving rain was nothing at all to her. "Hang on, lemme go get her. We have it all ready!"

"Thank god," Rodney said, sagging a little. "Oh, thank god, we might actually fix this yet. Of course, the actual hard part hasn't happened yet, and that will be up to _me_ , because it's always up to me, even if this is a bigger deal than usual and I really _can't_ screw it up and Alma needs to hurry up because we are on a _time-table."_

John covered his face with a hand. It wasn't any drier that way. His skin was starting to prune, though, and standing in one place meant the water was rising enough to slip down the inside of his boots.

Before he managed to get McKay to shut up -- he hadn't stopped, of course, and wouldn't without one of them forcing him to -- Alma, her mother, and four other very large, burly looking men carrying boxes that were bigger than they were appeared down the sopping, flooded path. "Colonel Sheppard," Amalthea, Alma's mother, called out, waving and grinning as she came closer. "Welcome to our new settlement, Colonel!"

All five were wearing the traditional Melanth rain-attire, which was pretty much a long bathing suit. John had known that, of course. This was the first time he and his team had been there since the relocation, but the marines that had actually helped with the relocation had gossiped. A lot. Looking at Amalthea _and_ the unknown men behind her, John could see why.

Rodney made a choking sound. "Weren't they, um. More _dressed_ the last time we saw them?"

"That was in their winter-time," Teyla explained, not looking at Rodney. "This is spring time. Also, I do no believe the rains were quite so severe, in their prior village."

The one that'd been decimated by an earthquake, about two months ago. The Melanthians were a good, kind people, long-standing traders with the Athosians, and had been very grateful for Atlantis' assistance in both transportation and medical matters. Alma, like others from her village, had spent almost two weeks on Altantis while she underwent a series of surgeries on her hand. It had cemented an already close relationship between the Melanthians and Atlantis, which was why they were there today. Friends helped each other and Atlantis was in desperate need of help.

The embrace from Amalthea resulted in more water down John’s pants. Fortunately, this time the others got the same treatment. The expression on Rodney's face made up for his now-even-colder ass. "Sorry to cut and run, Amalthea," John said, kissing her cheek in the traditional greeting. "But we're on a time-table. Things are gonna run pretty close if we don't -- "

"We understand, Colonel," Amalthea said, grinning broadly. "So we have taken some liberties and finished preparations."

"You what?" Rodney squawked . "You don't -- I mean, of course, your people are very -- how could you -- did you even know what you were -- I -- OW, get off of me, you two-ton oaf!"

John continued smiling, since Amalthea was, too; she'd spent a lot of time with McKay, and knew him better than Rodney thought she did. "Thanks for that,” he said, winking at her. “We really appreciate it."

"Giving this to you is the least we can do," she answered, half-bowing in the rain. "It is our pleasure and obligation. Go in peace, Colonel Sheppard." Taking a step to one side, the four men walked forward, balancing their burdens carefully. "If you will lead them to your 'jumper, we can stow them quickly."

If he thought it wouldn't lead to turned ankles or falling flat on his face, he would've jogged back to the 'jumper. "This way," was all he said, but he did walker quicker than normal. Rodney stayed behind to speak privately with Amalthea for a little, then hurried up alongside him, glancing back every few steps, eyes big and greedy as he looked at the plastic-wrapped boxes. "How much time, McKay?"

"Less than an hour. Forty minutes would be preferable, and that's only if Amalthea didn't make a mess of things which I am _not_ \-- "

"McKay!"

"Well, she could have! She won’t tell me everything she did and we're just taking her at her word that it'll help us! Do you not understand how incredibly screwed we are if this doesn't work, Colonel?"

John glared, but he sped up a little, too. "Yes, Rodney, I am _well_ aware of the risks, but Amalthea is our friend. She wouldn't do anything that could hurt us, you know that."

Return trips were always shorter, and John breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the 'jumper -- almost invisible with its gray shape next to gray skies and gray waves down the gray hill -- and actually did run the last twenty yards or so. "In here, gentlemen."

While Ronon and Teyla saw to the securing of the boxes, John went through the already minimized pre-flight check, wanting to get off the ground as soon as possible. Rodney bounced back and forth between compartments, haranguing the Melathians not to damage anything, then glaring at John and demanding to know why they weren't taking off right now, who cared that the Melathians were still on board and it was probably too heavy with so many people, they needed to go _now._

Despite all of that, things moved along quickly and pretty soon Teyla was calling their farewells as the ramp closed, and John was getting them airborne. "Are the boxes moving?" Rodney asked, twisting around to try and see into the back, where Ronon was. "They aren't moving, are they? If this is ruined -- "

"Perhaps you should stay and ensure the boxes are steady," Teyla suggested. "I'm sure Ronon would not mind."

John was sure Ronon _would_ , but since Rodney was unbuckling and heading into the back and _closing the door behind him_ , John was too busy fighting down the desire to kiss Teyla to say anything at all.

At least, he was until he caught Teyla giving him a considering look. "I believe Doctor McKay is correct. The 'drowned rat' look is not an attractive one on you, Colonel."

Instinctively, John reached up to his head, finding his hood pushed down and sopping wet hair plastered to his skull. "God dammit!" he snapped, running his fingers through his hair instinctively, which was exactly the wrong thing to do because that made it spring up like a porcupine's quills. "Who the hell pulled down my hood. _McKay!"_

Teyla's laughter was wine-bright as they soared towards the gate.

* * *

Back at Atlantis, there was no time for a shower or the gel John was thinking longing thoughts about. They barely waved at Chuck as they all -- even an uncomplaining Rodney -- hauled the boxes to where they needed to be, frantically certain that there was no time, that they were _dead_ , that this was going to be the worst thing any of them had ever done after a long, long line of failures for each of them --

Only to open the boxes and find everything they needed. Everything. "Okay," John decided. "Shifts. Teyla and I will go shower, while Rodney -- yes, I _know_ , Rodney -- and Ronon take care of the initial prep. That way you can do all the fussing you need to do,” he added with a pointed look at a flushed and bouncing Rodney, “then we swap in for the stuff Teyla and I can’t mess up, okay?"

"Yes, yes, fine," Rodney said, already unloading the first box, "go and primp because I'm already starting to chafe and we _don't have enough time."_

John hesitated one last second, just in case. He shouldn’t. It wasn’t dignified, and it could probably attract the wrong attention. Except _he_ was starting to chafe, too, and oh screw it: John turned on his heel and ran.

"My hair is longer than yours!" Teyla called as she sprinted down the opposite hallway.

It was, John thought as he ducked under the shower -- allowing himself one blissful second to think _warm, oh thank god,_ warm -- but all she did was dry it and brush it or whatever arcane ritual she practiced. If John didn't want to look like a reject from Mohawk Land he had _things to do,_ and they took time. There were reasons he never got his hair wet when they were on away missions!

One shower, some clean clothes, and a sturdy application of gel later, John ran _back_ to where Rodney and Ronon were working frantically. Well, Rodney was working frantically, a clumsy blur as he went from one table to the next, ranting about their impending doom. Ronon was lounging like a wet, bedraggled cat against the wall, hair in clumps around his head, watching. "He won't let me help," he explained when John looked at him. "Says I'm too incompetent to do it right."

"Christ, McKay, are you a perfectionist about _everything?_ Even this?" he asked, waving Ronon towards his quarters.

Rodney didn't bother to look up, a smear of white already decorating his cheek, dappled from his stubble. His hands flew as he worked, surprisingly competent at a job John never expected him to be good at. Granted, away missions weren’t a good way of gauging that. "Yes, of course I am," he said briskly. " Did you honestly expect anything else?"

John watched the careful patterns Rodney was making, each one a minor work of functional, perfect art. He carefully didn’t mention how grateful he was to Amalthea, who really had prepared for everything, even Rodney’s type-A personality. "Go get cleaned up, I'll take over this."

"No, really, just a little bit longer -- "

"We don't _have_ a little bit longer! I can do this. Go get cleaned up. That's an order, McKay!" John glared, waiting for Rodney to snap back that he didn't have to take orders from John when they weren't in the field -- but instead he just threw a longing glance over his shoulder and stumbled out of the room.

Fortunately for John's fumbling fingers, Teyla appeared a few minutes later and helped him. While left her own attempts at this were failures John had decreed they’d never repeat except under duress, she could, however, follow the assembly line that Rodney had already laid out.

Five minutes.

Ronon returned at one point and started going over the room, clutching Rodney's notes as he went. They might all gripe and grumble about McKay -- constantly -- but they knew he was a genius. He'd saved their lives more than any of them could count, and it didn't even matter that they'd returned the favor just as often. When it came to things of this nature, it was Rodney's show all the way, and the other three knew it.

Ronon’s eyebrows furrowed as he carefully adjusted the edges, smoothing things down with an expert grace that was unexpected with his large frame.

Two minutes.

Rodney burst through the door, still damp from his shower, hurrying to Ronon's side to double check absolutely everything. He didn't stop talking the whole time, but no one really listened. His words weren't meant for them, they were an extension of his utter terror because if they got this wrong... if they screwed this up...

One minute.

"Oh god oh god oh god. We're not going to make it. We're going to _die_ , Colonel, we're absolutely not going to make it!"

The doors opened before John could think of something calming to say.

All four teammates exchanged frantic, panicked expressions -- even _Ronon_ \-- then pasted the most welcoming smiles they could come up with on their faces. The probably looked like prisoners in front of a firing squad, but that just couldn’t be helped. There was only so much time, and they were out of it. "Hey, everybody," John greeted, doing his best aw, shucks routine as the room slowly filled with just about every single expedition member. "Um. I guess I should let Dr. Weir -- "

"What is that smell?" Zelenka, tiny and wild-haired in the front of the crowd demanded. "It is -- it smells... " His eyes closed, almost invisible behind the glare of his glasses, and he inhaled deeply. "Eggs?"

"Bacon!" someone else called out.

"Is that real maple syrup?" came out as a moan.

"Oh, man, _danishes!"_

"And a lot more," Rodney said, chin tilted up as his fear of disaster transformed into the smugness of a job well done. It was an assumption, at this point, but probably a safe one. "Of course, not all the ingredients are Earth-based, but they're the closest we've been able to find in the Pegasus galaxy."

Elizabeth fought her way through the crowd, smirking at the four of them before turning a regal face onto the assembled members of Atlantis. "If I can have your attention, please, I’ll explain what’s going on? Thank you. Ladies and gentleman, we all work very hard at what we do, and we don't often get a lot of thanks or a lot of time to stop and think about why we're doing it. I certainly don't get enough time to say that, and I know Colonel Sheppard feels the same."

John really hoped his smile didn't look as constipated as he thought it did.

"Now, as much as I'd like to tell each and every one of you just how much your contributions mean to me and the rest of the senior staff, none of us, unfortunately, have the time. Instead, we're instituting monthly Sunday Brunches. Everyone is invited, with shifts set up for those who have to remain on duty, so that we can all have a chance to sit with our coworkers and comrades, eat something a little better than our normal rations, and remind ourselves that we’re a pretty amazing group of people."

Cheering broke out. The line of people in front surged forward, all eyes intent on the tables behind John and his team, but a hand from Elizabeth stopped them. Idly, John wished he had that much control over the civilians -- he knew his men would obey instantly, even in a situation like this, but Rodney’s people? Never. 

Elizabeth was looking back at him, though, so he stepped forward into his cue. "To make things interesting, we've decided that each month, a different group will be responsible for who provides brunch. Now, the soldiers have already been divided up into teams and squads, and McKay and Beckett assure me the civilians have their own cliques. We're setting up a schedule and in the future one military team and one civilian team will use any legal, _ethically sound,_ " he glanced around pointedly, "means of procuring enough food to feed the entire expedition and any Athosians who wants to join us, several times over."

Before the _Deadalus_ ’ trips, none of this would be possible. John was fully aware that none of the later brunches would be this elaborate, relying heavily on what was salvageable from requisitions, but he already had a plan to reassure people on that front. Besides, it was fun playing Food Santa.

"Since this was our idea," Rodney continued, even though it hadn't been his idea and he'd wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, except for eating the results, "we went first. No, we're not telling you how we did it. You're all creative people, you can come up with your own methods."

He probably would've gone on at length, but someone shouted, "the food is getting _cold!"_ which was pretty much the end of that. Elizabeth tried to work out a line system, shouting over the increasing noise, but after a few moments of getting nearly trampled, she threw up her hands and retreated to the far corner where John and his team were already stationed, watching the fuss.

"We're going to miss the food," Rodney said mournfully, staring at the long, mostly-orderly line that had formed in Elizabeth's absence. "Those little pastries that Amalthea said she made herself, with the not-cream and the almost-powdered sugar that I put together like Napoleons even though they really aren’t, and oh, oh real _eggs_ , even if they come from an animal that looks more like a cat then a chicken, and bacon that’s _round_."

Chuckling, Elizabeth let herself slowly relax as she took everything in. Happy was a good look on her, especially since it was untempered and uncomplicated. Both of those were very rare. "I've got to hand it to you, Colonel. I was expecting stale danishes from the _Deadalus_ ' last run, maybe something Teyla could arrange from the Athosians. I certainly wasn't expecting Sunday brunch at the Waldorf! You've set the bar very high. _And_ did so in the time allotted.” She tossed him a wry grin, “You must've been cooking all night!"

John allowed himself to look smug, knowing his team looked the same. Well, Rodney was; Teyla and Ronon looked regal which worked out to about the same thing. Idly tracing the grains of the table, he said, "We're just that good, Elizabeth."

He made a mental note to double Chuck's bribe for doctoring the 'jumper records and providing them with the latest Intel before they went through the gate. It didn't matter that people would guess what they'd done. John just didn't want there to be _proof._

Elizabeth had to be aware of it, too, but as she climbed to her feet, she didn’t bother pursuing the topic. "Yes, you are. And since you'll be lucky to get in there before most people have had seconds, I've arranged for my own treat. One," she added, hand raised when John pulled a face, "that will be awarded to all those responsible, every month. Can you all stay here for a moment, please?"

“Like I want to be trampled to death,” Rodney quipped, but he looked pleased.

John her head to the kitchens for a moment, then turned his attention back to the mess hall. He was a little disappointed he wasn't first in line, since the not-eggs had smelled _incredible_ the whole trip back, and the little pastry things Rodney had reassembled were probably to die for, the way he kept grumbling about. Mostly, though, he watched how people smiled and laughed and jokingly jostled for position, the air suddenly warm and bright, despite the chill outside. Faces lined with stress and exhaustion grew softer, happier as they piled their plates and found their seats, bodies settling closer than normal, the sound of clinking silverware filling up any unnoticed edges. 

Maybe this plan really _had_ been a good idea.

A click of something being placed on the table brought his attention back to Elizabeth, who was emptying a tray of four steaming mugs. Rodney reached for his with a moan, burying his nose into the cup and inhaling deeply, entire body hunched and trembling with the kind of rapture only a ZPM had previously induced.

"That's disgusting, Rodney," John said -- but then he smelled it too, and oh, oh _god_. Without thinking, he copied everything Rodney had, nose millimeters above the liquid in his mug, even reproducing the exact moaning noise Rodney had made. "Oh, god, _chocolate,_ " John groaned. "Hot chocolate!"

"The way my Grandmama used to make," Elizabeth said, eyes glowing as she held her own mug, "which means you need to drink it with a spoon. Enjoy, gentleman, Teyla. Try and make sure you get something with protein in you, too."

"I hate it when she tries to mother us," Rodney said, eyes still fixed on the mug he hadn't taken a sip of, yet. "She's not good at it, and really, when have I ever turned down food?” He leaned forward for another deep inhalation, eyes half-closing in pleasure. “How do you think Elizabeth managed this," he continued in a lightning fast conversation-change, "because you need the right kind of chocolate for this and it takes forever and -- "

"Rodney." Raising his mug into the air, John waited until his teammates copied the motion. It was cheesy, and meant less to Teyla and Ronon, but even though he wasn't good at this kind of thing, he could still recognize the moment. "To us."

Mugs clinked and as the sound of a happy contented Atlantis surrounded them, they each drank from the cups.

Well. They tried to. Actually, the hot chocolate was as rich and sludge-like as Elizabeth had warned them, so all they really managed to do was each get chocolate on their clothes. Rodney, of course, cursed a little too loudly at that, worried about potential burning a lot less than his lost potential of _hot chocolate_ , which attracted attention as they all danced and swatted and generally tried to clean up. The laughter moved in a wave, growing in intensity as more people pointed out the vaunted lead team making fools of themselves, until the whole city seemed to echo with it.

John figured it worked better than the toast did. 

Especially since it meant no one stopped them when they snuck in line.


End file.
